Hell Hath No Fury
by Prosper-the-XVIII
Summary: Fifty years on, M finally has the chance to get revenge on the group responsible for the murder of her parents. But when things begin to get messy she is faced with a difficult decision. What means more to her; her own personal vengeance or James Bond's life?
1. Chapter One: Alone

_1952, Kinross High School, Scotland_

The twelve year old toyed with the end of her long, blonde braid, twirling the end round her finger, her science teacher rambling nineteen to the dozen about stem cells and every other person in the class sitting head bent, writing every word that left his lips. The girl's own jotter, in which she was supposed to be doing the same, was near empty, save for a few random stick figures armed to the teeth with guns and various other spy weapons that she had hastily scribbled in an attempt to look as if she was actually doing something.

"Evelyn," Mallory, the girl/awful swot that sat next to Evelyn hissed through her teeth, shoving her somewhat too big glasses up her nose and jabbing a bony elbow into Evelyn's ribs. "Aren't you supposed to be making notes? We've got a test next week."

"Sod it," Evelyn looked out the window vacantly, ignoring the second elbow jab from Mallory that this earned her, her steel-flecked blue eyes picking up what of the persistent drizzle that apparently passed for mid July in Perthshire that she could actually see through her overlong blonde fringe. She had been told the specifics, but she still had no idea why she went to school in Scotland; it wasn't like she boarded or anything, she had lived in Kent for most of her life and when they were actually in the country, both her parents worked in London - the pair of them were MI6 agents and she hoped to be at some stage as well. It was something to do with both of her parents currently being on a mission, and her in some kind of 'safe house' a few miles from the school. She still hated it, mainly because both teachers and pupils gave her hell for her English accent; other kids called her posh and teachers assumed that she was thick. She wasn't, though due to her short attention span, she played up to this for all she was worth most of the time. "Just tell Mr Martin that he can stick his 'test' up his fat ar-"

"Miss Cameron?" Her teacher, Mr Martin, turned round, glaring at her. "Are you even listening"

"Yes...sir?" Evelyn said gingerly in a monotone. Then, turning to Mallory; "Did I guess right?" The other girl simply rolled her eyes and got back to drawing a small cartoon owl in the margin of her jotter.

"Really? What did I just say?"

"You said; 'Miss Cameron? Are you even listening?' I'm surprised you can't remember, sir. Still, happy to help."

"Why you little-" Evelyn inched away as he jabbed a ruler in her face. Before he got the chance to either hit her or bark 'DETENTION!', presumably spraying her with saliva in the process, Evelyn heard the voice of Ms McLaren, the school's platinum blonde secretary.

"Excuse me, is Evelyn Cameron in this class?"

Evelyn's hand was up before the final word could leave the secretary's mouth.

"Evelyn, there's someone here to collect you. Take your things," then, a lot quieter. "I'm afraid we've got some bad news."

Evelyn found her legs shaking as she stood up, cramming her science jotter into her flowered satchel, and made her way towards the door.

As she left the room, she felt Ms McLaren's hands turn her around so that they were face-to-face. "Evelyn, I've got some bad news concerning your parents. I understand that you know that your parents are both agents of Her Majesty's Secret Service, don't you?"

Evelyn was freaking out now. She nodded lamely, fearing that she was going to burst out crying if she attempted to even open her mouth. The receptionist picked up fear in the girl's steely eyes. "Well, as I think you know, they were on a mission in Italy until recently. Your father got involved in a shoot-out between a suspected member of the Mafia, and your mother was caught in the crossfire. I'm afraid I have to tell you that they were both shot dead this morning. There's a car here to pick you up; you're wanted in MI6 to take a few tests as they feel that you know too much about the organisation to not be involved with it somehow, and if your current IQ results match up to the ones you take there and you're at a decent level of physical fitness, then you're being offered a scholarship at a British espionage college in Switzerland. I'm sorry about your mum and dad, but I don't think we want to keep the car waiting for you any longer than necessary."

Evelyn nodded again, chewing her lip. She knew now that he dream was coming true before her, but at what cost? The gravity of the situation hit her as she began walking, and her world totally shattered.

* * *

_Fifty years later, London_

__Exactly fifty years since her parents' deaths, the seemingly nameless woman known to all who knew her as M stared at the embossed gilt lettering on the white marble of their gravestone.

_Christopher Alexander Cameron_

_Unknown-17th July, 1952_

_and_

_Marion Judith Hargreaves Cameron_

___Unknown-17th July, 1952_

_Loving parents to Evelyn Judith Marion Isabel Cameron_

M let a tear slip down her face at the memory of that day of the twelfth year of her life. If she was to go back fifty years and a day and tell the young girl, Evelyn, that this was her future, she was almost certain that the girl wouldn't believe her.

M smiled weakly as she stared at her parents' names above her own, crying at the thought that she was the only person in her family still alive and at the thought that she now was older than thy had been when they died...


	2. Chapter 2: Suicidal

**Okay, it occurred to me the other day that the dates (this is set in 2002 if I have added up correctly)** **make this clash with Die Another Day, but what the hell. That also makes it Brosnan's Bond. I have a fixation with M going all badass-field-agent so this story is taking a surprise turn...**

"007? Are you even listening to me?" M was frantic. There was no other way around it. The twelfth of July was never a date she looked forward to, namely because it simply marked another year that she ad been without her parents, both gone well before their time when she was twelve. And now by the looks of things, 007 was an inch away from getting himself killed. Again. "Look, I'm watching CCTV as it happens, you have literally got five minutes to get the hell out of there, because the guys on the other side of that door...I wouldn't put torture and murder past them to be frank."  
"M, I can get out in about thirty seconds. Just let this finish downloading and-" The awful quality of the radio transmitters they were using, added to the fact that Bond had dropped his in a swimming pool a few days previously meant that his voice was cracking with every syllable and she expected that he was hearing hers the same way. She stared at the hazy CCTV on the panel screen on one wall, showing 007 stooped over a laptop in a trashy hotel suite, shaking it frantically and waiting with baited breath for the files on it to email to M. This could all be a dead end, M knew that - the suspicion that the Italian gang had somehow gotten hold of a bunch of MI6 files, hers included, was still simply a suspicion - and for that reason she had no intention of losing Bond on a mission destined to go balls up from the first minute.  
"Screw the download! Just chuck the computer out the window or something and _get out!" _She watched the grooves in her desk that her nails were making as her hands tesned up widen and lengthen as she dragged her hand up the desk. "007, someone's coming. Just get the hell out of there!"  
"What about the files?"  
"We reckon it's a dead end. Just in case, throw the computer off a balcony. Shoot it. Hurl it at a wall. Drop it in the bath. Do anything! Just destroy it, and quickly!" Just as the words left her lips, M heard a gunshot in her ear, and the picture on the screen fazed out into static. "James, what's going on? Someone's shot the camera." First name. That had come out in a blind panic. She was freaking out big-style.  
"M - help...I'm caught! Abort the mission! Agent down..." 007 sounded as if someone had hands around his neck. M heard a crunch as his radio was torn out of his ear and stood on, then a flat tone indicating that connection had been lost. Tanner watched M face-palming, her expression for some reason making him think of a grey Scottish fold-ear kitten.  
"Oh, shit. James bloody Bond, you and your..." M couldn't finish the sentence. Her voice cracked as she choked on a sob. Him and his what? Obviousness? Accident Prone-ness? Was that even a phrase?  
"Ma'am, just wondering, are we going to abort the mission like he said or-"  
"No," M looked up with her usual stoic expression. "Someone's going after him or at least finding out who we're dealing with here. I just don't know who."  
"004?" Tanner suggested tentatively, referring to the platinum blonde Spanish 00 named Tiago Rodriguez. M buried her face in her hands again.  
"Rodriguez is still in China and I'm not sure if he's even still alive. I haven't heard from him for three weeks. Wait, I've got an idea, but it's either exceptionally brave or completely suicidal."  
"Okay..." Tanner wasn't liking the sound of this.  
"I'm going to go out there myself."

* * *

**Sorry, pretty big cliffhanger! Sneak peek for the next chapter...**  
**M+Airport+Gun in the hand luggage=...?**


	3. Chapter 3: Problematic

**To escape any confusion this may have caused, the character Mallory in the first chapter simply has Mallory as a first name and is not connected to Gareth Mallory in any way. This can be either superfluous or funny, it depends on whether or not you have a sense of humor. Enjoy!**

* * *

There are certain things in life destined to go completely balls up from the first minute. Early morning flights booked the previous day are one of them. M stuck her head up from under the sheets, her hair sticking out in all directions and her eyes slits against the harsh morning light streaming through the curtains. She was meant to have left at three am. That was not a good sign. A glance at the clock next to her told her that she'd slept in by two hours already. Oh damn.

She bolted upright, already undressing and attempting to throw a few last-minute things into her handbag. The contents of it were not what would usually be expected from a sixty-two year old woman flying out to Italy, considering that most of it had been packed by Q Branch. She knew that trying to get a gun, three clips of ammo and cyanide capsules through security was going to pose a bit of a problem, but she had done it before and she could do it again. She grabbed her bag, now fully dressed and attempting to tug a high heel on whilst walking, she drew to the conclusion that breakfast was going to have to wait. With that thought fresh in her head, she picked up her remaining suitcase and lugged the whole lot out the door.

Within five minutes of leaving her apartment, M was back again. Boarding pass. After repeating that process with car keys, passport, purse and mobile phone, she finally left, and for good this time.

* * *

M had literally been awake for half an hour, and in that time she had left her apartment in a mad panic, gotten into an argument with a stroppy receptionist, nearly lost her passport and not eaten anything. So she really couldn't be doing with this.  
"Madam, could you please remove your coat, shoes, jewelery and anything in your pockets and stand with your hands against the wall and your feet shoulder width apart?" After a mild faff with her earring, M did as she had been asked, glaring at the security guard probing through her bag and barking into a radio.  
"Security, we have a 23-19, woman of around seventy, armed but presumably not dangerous."  
"I'm sixty-two!" M barked indignantly, grimacing as another guard dug his hands into her chest whilst searching her person for any other potential weapons. She had told Q that putting the Glock in her hand luggage was a stupid idea.  
"Madam, we do not wish to have to use force but we will if need be. Now you have the right to remain silent and anything you say can and will be used against you in court." The guy now running his hands down her bum a little harder that he maybe had any right to said flatly.  
"Make your mind up, are you arresting me or feeling me up?" Mu muttered through her teeth, shifting her hand and yanking her skirt up. "What the hell do you think I'm going to do, anyway?"  
"Madam, please stay calm, we are doing this in the best interest of other fliers. Could you please put your shoes back on, pick up your things and step this way?" It was a woman ordering her about now, and M indignantly grabbed her patent Gucci heels and trench coat, storming after the security guard.

* * *

"I've explained already, I work for MI6 and my last intention is to blow anything up or shoot anyone," M wasn't sure who was reprimanding who here; she could see that the head of security she was now sitting facing was scared of her.  
"Why should we believe what you say? We've heard all sorts before."  
M rolled her eyes, curling her lip. "I can give you at least seven different phone numbers, all of whom will agree with what I'm telling you."  
"That makes no odds. You were still found with a weapon about your person and therefor it is out of our power to do anything other than disallow you the right to fly. We've alerted the police and we can't do anything but wait for them to arrive."  
"Look, I have bloody proof! You've got all my stuff; jacket pocket. There's a black badge type thing, it basically has a narrowed down version of my MI6 file," M scowled, the guy in charge of Security if anything reminding him of Judge Judy in the way that he was simply repeating himself over and over again just using a different selection of words. "Why would I be saying this if it wasn't true." She added.  
As someone, presumably another guard or a secretary, dug the badge from her pocket and skim read it, M continued protesting. "Even if I'm telling the truth, you're still not going to let me fly?"  
The head of security finished looking at it, and skidded the thing along the table to her. "Though I fully believe you now, I'm afraid so. Though as you would have had to if you didn't produce this, you won't have to spend any time in custody, however we still can't allow you onto this flight regardless-"  
"Passengers on the 0700 flight to Bologna; this is the final call for boarding. Please make your way to Departure Lounge C as the gates shall be closing in approximately five minutes. Thank you." He was cut off by the cool monotone that announced flights over the tannoy.  
"Well that's bloody well obvious now! Look, I have an agent out there right now, he could be being tortured, killed and god knows what else, I need to get there within the day! Is there nothing else you can give me?"  
"Well...Look, this is a bit unorthodox, but if you hurry, you could get through if you're quick."  
M stood up, snatching up her stuff, her face saying it all. "And I suppose I should be grateful for that."


	4. Chapter 4: Wounded

**Right, this is going to be another bit of M's past mashed in with the actual fic, but trust me on this, it comes into play later. The description of the kind of MI6 training college thing is based heavily upon CHERUB. Don't know where I got the idea of M/Evelyn having to share a room with a Hungarian girl who doesn't speak a damned word of English (based on and named after Hunyak out of ****_Chicago!_****) came out of nowhere; I just thought that it would be something to annoy her. The flashback is set a year after the last one (however, when Evelyn is again referred to as M, then it is back in 2002 in Italy.) Oh, I make a comment using the title of something that Judi Dench has previously been in, can you find it?**

* * *

_1953, District Nine, Switzerland_

"Evelyn, what are you still doing here?"  
"What does it look like?" Evelyn lowered her photo she had been staring at from her eyeline and glared down from her top bunk at Hunyak, her Hungarian roommate who didn't speak a bloody word of English. Why Aaron – her handler – hadn't had the decency to assign her a room shared with someone who actually spoke her language was utterly beyond her, but even after a year of late-night conversations in stilted Hungarian, it still got on Evelyn's nerves. Especially since the phrase 'personal space' had no kind of direct meaning in Hunyak's mind whatsoever.  
"Yeah, I know what you're actually _doing _but we were all meant to be out on the assault course two hours ago." In response, Evelyn lifted her right arm, which was plastered and in a sling.  
"How the hell has this escaped your notice?"  
She had no idea what the MI6 training college she had been currently attending for a little less than a year was actually called – it was one of those hard-to-pronounce Latin words with too many 'Y's and accents in it – but it was kind of a random cross between MI6, prep school and military academy and her current broken arm could be put down to all four foot eleven of her being flattened by a six foot four seventeen year old in a rugby match. Evelyn was a bit of a tomboy to say the least but she had paid the price for this on too many occasions as there was no concept of gender, height or age separation when it came to contact sports – a problem that kind of needed to be fixed and quickly as the ages attending the college varied from eleven to eighteen, all of whom had had parents in the agency or been caught up in Six by quirk of fate and virtually all no longer having one or both parents.

Reflecting on this, Evelyn remembered that she was the latter and had been so for a year today. She looked hard at the picture cupped in her hands; her parents' wedding photograph. No-one actually knew she had it and it shouldn't have even existed; neither of her parents had had legal identities and even her own existence no longer stretched past her physical being. In agreeing to work for MI6, she had given up her legal identity and every piece of proof of her ever living had been destroyed, including birth certificates and photos. She sighed, flicking her ridiculously overlong fringe from her eyes and stuffing the picture back underneath her pillow. As soon as she was old enough, as soon as she had gotten that licence to kill she had set her sights on when she became a fully-fledged agent, she was going to brutally murder whoever it was who did this to her and her mum and dad, with emphasis on the brutally.

* * *

_2002, Monaco, Italy_

After the run-in at Heathrow, followed by three hours of absolute hell on the plane - first class had been booked out and she had only just managed by the skin of her teeth to get into economy, as there had been only one free seat on the entire flight - and a six hour drive to her hotel that only should have taken one hour when her stanav sent her in the wrong direction entirely, all M really wanted to do was collapse and sleep, but as the situation was totally urgent - if all went to plan she was tracking down James over the next three days and they should be back in the UK by the time the week was out - sleep wasn't an option. No, she had had to dig her laptop out of her bag, then call Tanner, who she had left temporarily in charge, and frenziedly type out everything he said. That really reminded her of why being a field agent could be so annoying sometimes.  
"Tanner, slow down!"  
"Sorry, ma'am," she could tell that he was probably staring at the floor from his tone of voice.  
"Okay, go on."  
"Q's worked out who we're dealing with here. We've scanned through all of our files and we think we have our guy - well, guys."  
M nodded, sucking her teeth. "Any light shed on Bond? Even if I do know who I'm up against, I'm off blind if I don't know where he is."  
"Close to you, actually. I'm mailing you rough directions now. Did you have any trouble getting here?"  
"You can warn Q in advance that I'm going to be fairly pissed off when I get back because that bloody gun in my bag nearly got me arrested. Do you have any idea what kind of threat to 007 or me that we might be getting at?"  
"It's big," Tanner sounded worried as he knew that he was seriously about to open a wound. "Not sure you, but we...We think that it might be the Mafia."


	5. Chapter 5: Tested

**Remember when Evelyn broke her arm in the last chapter? It's coming into play again now. And it will again later. Remember it.**

* * *

_MI6 HQ, London, 1956_

For as long as she could actually remember, Evelyn always had a fixation with espionage. It had come with being the daughter of two 00s. She had made her first molotov cocktail (and blown up the garage and next door's Bentley in the process) when she was seven. Since she was nine, she had been able to ring off the basic chemical components of hydrogen cyanide, much to the amazement of her science teacher. She had learned how to disarm a Walther PPK hand gun when she was ten. She had accidentally on purpose poisoned Hunyak's pet fish with a lethal combination of saturated salt water, vodka and toilet bleach after a rather out-of-hand argument when she was thirteen. She could disassemble something along the lines of seven kinds of grenades in around three minuets flat.

This was simply the life of a perfectly average now-sixteen-year-old who had picked up spy skills from the long-deceased Marion and Christopher Cameron - to put it in other words, 009 and 003, or her parents - and then been thrown into the whirlwind of chaos that was MI6 by tragic quirk of fate.

She was going to have to compile all of that knowledge now.

Her Glock pistol shook between sweaty hands as she sent the target downrange by fifty meters, then fired another training round at the print of a spreadeagled male. She supressed a laugh as the bullet tore through the paper that would have been the area of the cutout's groin had it been real. She couldn't afford to make any more mistakes; the few she was sure of were thanks to her anatomy, however, not her own nerves. Her rather irritating penicillin allergy and the minor bone defect in her right forearm caused by an old sport injury were both nothing she could help. She fired again, this time hitting the target square in the forehead. A satisfied smirk turned her lips up as she clipped more ammuntitoon into the gun.

Needless to say, she was currentl;y having to undergo the various tests she would have to complete before she could achieve what she had been training to for the past four years at the Dzjakzay College of Espionage for the past four years; what was in her eyes, the golden gleam of life as an agent of Her majesty's Secret Service. Things had changed since she had been sent back to her homeland, the worst of which was finding out that her long-detested Hungarian roommate, Hunyak Czakó, who had left the college two months prior to Evelyn herself, had been killed on a mission a month after ataining 00 status. 00s were nutorious; for their foolhardiness, for their lust for danger. And for their reputation for dying within a year. However, in the arrivals terminal of Heathrow, Evenlyn hadn't had a lot of time to regret the various pet murders and general racist quips she had made to the girl over the years.

She couldn't help but worry a little about how she had scrubbed up in various medical and psychological tests; full-body x-rays and muscle biopsies would almost certainly bring out injuries sustained in rigorous training at Dzjakzay that could almost certainly affect her abilities as a field agent, she was only about 5'1" (a constant ridicule among both students and staff at the bloody college) and she was sure that the phrase coined by one of her instructors 'pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma' would crop up somewhere. But she was far better on the front of combat. About as far from gun-shy as you could get, the young whippet of a soon-to-be agent had grown up in an enviroment of shooting and explosions, having been brought on missions until she was old enough to talk. Her steady aim lowered as she heard the voice of Sir Miles Messervy, or hopefully her soon-to-be boss, M.

"Evelyn," he strode up behind her and removed her earplugs. The young woman whipped round, her sweat-dampened braid thwacking her across the cheek. "We've come to a descision."

* * *

_Milan, Italy, 2002_

M flattened herself against a wall, her gun, which was crammed down the waistband of her knickers, pressing cold against her hip. She knew where she was, in the run-down motel grounds, and at that she knew James's exact location to within about three meters, she knew that he was yards away from him and at that could hear his cries, but the fact that she knew who she was dealing with was scaring the life out of her. M, pull yourself together. What could they do you you; what would they want with you? _They killed your parents!_ They won't know who you are!

Too much to hope. She felt someone shove her against what had at some stage been a mini-mart, before boxing her hard around the mouth. Blood slipped from the corner of her lip as a voice speaking English with a heavy Italian accent hissed into her ear; "Haven't I seen you before?"

God! If she had a pound for every time she had been told as a girl that she looked uncannily like her mother, she would be a billionaire at least. This couldn't be...

"N-no..." she stammered as she felt a gun barrel press into her stomach.

"What are you doing here?" She felt his hand plunge into her trousers in a rather undignified manner and tug out her gun. It rtook him one glance to suss out her position.

Blood flooded her eyes as he thwacked her head against the wall and she was knocked out...


	6. Chapter 6: Bitter

**I'm back! Anybody miss me? I'm updating this now as I don't feel like writing romance at present moment in time - my brother had me up at half five so I'm not in the mood for fluff right now. RebaForever15, maybe later - and this is the only thing I have going at the moment that isn't 00M. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Tanner?" Mission control secretary, June Bonham-Carter, stooped over the desk of MI6's Chief of STaff and temporary head whilst 'The Evil Queen of Numbers' was out trying to get the infamous 007 out of whatever mess he'd dived into head-first this time. "What's going on?"  
"Nothing good," Tanner muttered through gritted teeth. Ordering agents about was something he was by now used to, but M was another story entirely; what had happened now was the downright foolhardy double-0 nature in her had once again spread its wings, she had refused to listen to or see sense and had now been caputred. M dealt mainly with the sixteen 00s and Tanner with everyone else for good reason. In between skimming through a GPS map of Milan and trying to find M or James, Tanner rung this off to June, in a phrase, shitting bricks out of worry for M and 007, perhaps considerably more for the former than far more robust (or rather accident prone) latter.

A flash of the red LED on his headset told Tanner that M, James or someone was trying to get a hold of him. "M?" His response was worried impulse, but it fortunately was M on the other end. Her tone was stilted and uneasy, voice belittled to a groan as if she was in considerable pain.  
"Tanner, Q was right. It's a dead end. Our target's down and I've got Bond."

* * *

It really did seem so stereotypical that it was insane, James's current sorry situation. As a gun had been thrown to the floor and his black-suited captors leaving on realization that there must have been someone else somewhere wothin the derilict hotel serving as their base, this thought had sprung to his mind. Screw CBS Drama, this was so much like a TV show that it was unreal. James didn't have a clue who on earth he was dealing with, only that they knew how to make a person suffer, though barely touching them at the same time. The way that it was operating was something like this; he was frequently being injected with something that to the extent of his knowledge was a hallucination-indicinng drug or sme kind of venom, then being taunted with whatever made it stop until he gave in, though the only point at which that had happened was when he had confessed to his first name being James, that was it. A slightly exaggerated parody of dialogue was as follows;  
"What's your name?"  
"No-one."  
"Where are you from?"  
"Nowhere.  
"Who do you work for?"  
"Nandos..." etc.

It was getting pretty unbearable, but now that whoever it was had gone, he sunk back and tried to release himself a little from the last nightmarish drug trip. Korea be damned, this was bloody awful.

His captors re-entered, but not alone. They seemed to be ignoring him, and someone in facade dragging a semi-conscious woman with blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her face...where had he seen that before?

_M._

* * *

Once again, M was thrown against a wall, asking herself again and again what the hell she was doing here. What crazy, suicidal part of her had decided that this was a good idea in the slightest? Her mouth hurt and was flowing blood freely - she was having to spit the stuff out every few seconds - but compared to what she was dreading was about to happen, it was absolutely noting to be concerned about.

She forced herself to disperse all tension from her limbs so as not to show weakness or fear, but as a gun pressed to her temple she allowed a small, involentart tremor to convulse her body.  
"Who the hell are you?" A voice speaking in heavily-accented Italian breathed into her face. M hazarded a glance at James, picking up that he was mercifully reasonably intact, before the large male pressed against her spoke once more. "I swear to God I've seen you before." She couldn't help but notice the voice was slightly older than she had first registered it to be, and that the person who posessed it seemed to have a heavy dusting of white smattered through his black hair. A name she couldn't help but mouth left her suddenly.  
"Sandro De Luca..." Her hand clamped lover her mouth as she recognized the name. Her eyes were consumed by inferno as in a sudden motion she lashed out, snatching hold of the man's wrist and ducking down so that her head was out of his area of firing. An iron vice grip on her wrist pulled her off, but not before she swung her bottom half upwards and dug her black court shoe into the groin of the guy. A reflex action as he stooped, dropping the weapon, forcefully bent M's wrist backwards, and all she had always dreaded happened in a hellish rush.

Her arm bent backwards into an unnatural v-shape as her other fist closed around the gun's butt, agony exploding in her elbow and something pushing painfully up from the jagged, broken angle of her forearm. She remembered now as she turned side on to the man, gun raised in her good arm and the other clasped to her chest, consuming her mind in white-hot agony. Her arm had been badly broken in a training accident when she was only in her early teens and it had never gotten the oppertunity to heal properly, thus had been left liable to snap easily for what could be the rest of her life. Before she had the oppertunity to think about what she was doing, she raised her injured arm, sweat dampening her face, and tore out what had pushed up and pierced her flesh - the surgical pin that had been inserted to try and resolve the bone defect caused by that one break - opening her mind to another universe of agony and turning her light-headed. Trying her level best to ignore this, she closed her eyes tight and tightened her trigger finger of the hand clutching the revolving pistol. In a sharp burst, the bullet flew from the gun's muzzle, into the still-slumped form of Sandro De Luca.

That one bullet had ended the life of the man responsible for killing her parents...


	7. Chapter 7: Admitting

Seconds after it had drilled into her head that she had just killed someone - not that that bothered her, what with all he'd cost her throughout her life - the pain and shock from M's injured arm took over her completely; her light-headedness made her stagger backwards a few steps and collapse, narrowly missing landing on James and instead slumping into a sitting position against him, her head resting on his thigh. "You're not naked, are you?" M sighed, looking up uneasily.  
"I've got pants on if that makes any difference," James looked down at M. Despite her sudden outburst, she appeared to have now let herself succumb a little to her injuries, breathing shallowly and clutching her arm to her chest, though this perhaps wasn't without reason. This came to mind when he noticed that her forearm was what could be described only as a bloody mess, in both senses of the phrase.  
"Good enough. Are you okay?"  
"In a loose sense of the term, yes. Feel like my head's full of water, but other than that... You? How the hell did that happen so easily?" He attempted to get ahold of her arm to have a slightly better look, but she automatically flinched away.  
"It's a really old break that never healed properly; I was thirteen at the time. I think it might've been a rugby injury or something-"  
"What, all 5'1" of you played rugby?"  
"Whyever not?"  
"Sorry, I've only just gotten over the notion of girls' football."  
"You really are an absolute charmer; I don't call you misogynistic without reason. Anyway, provided I remember correctly, I was tackled by some massive sixteen-year-old; the ball and my right arm were all between me and the ground. I had the choice to either make the pass and get flattened or hold on and face a penalty; obviously the foolhardy part of me decided that the former was the better idea.  
"I have to confess, what I took from that is something I feel you're yet to learn. There's absolutely nothing heroic about injury in the name of pride," she shot him her icy stare at that.  
"See, perfectly good reason why girls and contact sports should be a banned combination."

If looks could kill, a certain Mr Bond would almost definitely be six feet under.  
"Well, what do we do now?" back in seriousness, James began picking at his handcuffs. "I don't suppose you have a hairpin on you?"  
M snorted contemptuously. "You honestly think that's something I bother with?"  
"Fair point. But still, how are we meant to get out of here? I mean, I feel like hell and I've no idea what kind of state I'm in; you obviously can't drive and even if I could I'm practically in the altogether."  
"Not to mention that whenever I try and stand I just keel over for some reason; I think it's more shock than anything else," M sighed, leaning heavily against him. "So here we are then; a complete pair of spent forces. I've radioed Tanner, so I suppose that until then we're going to have to just sit here."  
"Fine, but why are you here?" James noticed his poor choice of words far too late. "I mean, what's wrong with sending out any other agent?"  
"I don't know. Bout of slightly suicidal courage I suppose."  
"And that guy," James cocked his head in the direction of Sandro De Luca's limp body. "What was all that about?"  
"I'll explain at a later date," M murmured, her eyes misting.

But it seemed as if that later date would never come. Right after those words had left M's lips, James flopped limp on top of her.

And she couldn't find his pulse...

TO BE CONTINUED...


	8. Chapter 8: Guilty

**Okay, only a few more chapters after this one. This is kinda gonna be a quickie; the next shameless M/Bond mother/son fluff (it's Brosnan's Bond, whom 00M just does NOT work with.) And I'm sorry about the lack of Bond updates; I've become hopelessly addicted to Wreck-It Ralph - it's just so darn CUTE!**

* * *

_Evelyn, I'm perfectly willing to give you a post in MI6, but on one condition. All that's cropped up in your psychological tests that would have cause for concern is that you're unwilling to let go after your parents' murder. I understand that you're human and that you're going to want to avenge them in some way and given half a chance and a clean shot I'd have no problem with you doing so, but I'm not going to let you work for me so that you can turn your career into some kind of personal vendetta. -Sir Miles Messervy_

"Who said anything about vendetta?"

M shot Tanner her famous death-glare as the two sat outside James's room in some hospital somewhere in Milan, M's left arm in plaster to somewhere about her mid upper arm and two stitches in a cut in her lip covered in black congealed blood.  
"I heard all of that through your earpiece. M, think about it. You knew that there was a high risk of this mission being a dead end, yet you still sent out Bond, knowing that in typical fashion he would probably cock it all up. Then when he did, you automatically jumped up to go after him, despite the fact that when you were an agent you were suspended for authority rejection, lack of self defense ability and inability to use a gun. When I told you that it was the Mafia we'd been caught up in you were out the same night. And when you sussed out who this guy actually was, you didn't hesitate to pull the trigger on him. And how does this all add up? He killed your parents fifty years ago. M, there's such a thing as stupid ideas, but unless it was some kind of plan that was beyond idiotic."

M resisted the urge to slap him. Admittedly the mission had gone direly wrong. All that had happened was they'd discovered that they were at a dead loss, M herself had wound up with a compound fracture to her left arm and James had gone into cardiac arrest, presumably through drug overdose (M supposed that this was how they'd tortured him) "Tanner, really! I...I-" And that was when she realized. What had been the point? That suicidal urge to go out after James hadn't been some kind of dire madness. It had been an age-old blood-lust that she'd never noticed before kicking in once more. She'd been acting of her own accord.

What had she done?


End file.
